Shame Upon the House of Montague
by SurpriseSushi
Summary: "I asked you to look after him." He said, looking up at Mycroft. "I didn't think that very difficult." - Post-Reichenbach, John can't handle Sherlock's death. Rated T for dark theme's, drug use and suicide.


**Shame Upon the House of Montague  
>By SurpriseSushi<br>A Sherlock fanfiction  
>Rated T - For dark themes, drug use and character suicide<strong>

He had asked Mycroft to help him arrange the funeral. He sat silently and nodded only when he had to pick the coffin. A dark mahogany with silver details; one he knew his companion could appreciate. Mycroft didn't seem concerned with his younger brother's despair, but Sherlock could sense his worry. He decided not to comment upon it for he did not give a damn.

This was his fault. This was all his fault. He never thought it would end up this way; this was another perfect example of his complete obliviousness to natural human reaction. He never took the time to consider John's feelings. He had just assumed he would have dealt with his 'death'. He never thought John would-

"I asked you to look after him." He said, looking up at Mycroft. "I didn't think that very difficult."

"Sherlock," Mycroft sat down next to Sherlock. "I know I can never apologize enough, but I told you-"

"You couldn't sacrifice your work. Yes, I know."

"I couldn't drop everything as much I would have liked to, Sherlock. For you." Mycroft corrected. He sighed and continued gently. "Go back to your flat. I'll do the rest here. I just have to pick the flower arrangements and pay. I'll try to come by later."

Sherlock sat in his chair, staring into space, in 221b. He didn't want to be here. It smelled of John. A smell he couldn't describe as anything but John. Along with the smell came unwanted memories; memories that threatened his carefully built walls with a bombardment of feelings. He didn't want to feel. He wanted to sit there and sink into the chair, sink into complete darkness.

He sought numbness.

He stood up suddenly, a frantic look in his eyes, and began to tear the apartment apart. He didn't need to look long; Mrs. Hudson and John had never found this particular stash. They never even knew he had something like this. He pulled out the little medicine box from its hiding place and brought it with him as he sat back down and opened the box.

Cocaine. An old habit of his, a very old habit. One he thought he would never need again, but kept a small amount in the flat- just in case. What exactly 'just in case' had entailed at the time, he was unsure of- he was just glad he had thought to keep it.

The needle prepared, he hovered it above the skin of his elbow. He hesitated. Only for a second. He punctured his skin and pressed the needle, injecting the drug. He waited, feeling the numbness slowly creeping into his bloodstream. He let out his breath, settling back into his chair.

He almost immediately regretted this decision. The feelings he feared doubled due to the altered state of mind that was an effect of the drug. What would John think of him now? Solving his problems with- He stood up again, but his head spun and he fell to the ground, grabbing onto the chair to stop his head from smashing open on the floor. He took at deep breath and sat for a moment. He pulled himself up, grabbed the medicine box, opened the window and chucked it out. He didn't bother to watch it hit the ground; he slumped back to the ground and buried his head in his hands. And he cried.

He was unsure how long he sat there, but when he arose from the drug-induced stupor, he noticed an arm around his shoulders and a head resting on his neck. Looking around, he saw Lestrade, his arm being the one around his shoulders and he was quietly snoring, his head nuzzled into Sherlock's neck. Sherlock normally would have been bothered by the intimacy, but due to his current state, he let Lestrade sleep.

Looking around, he saw Mrs. Hudson asleep in John's armchair, tear tracks dry on her cheeks.

He was tired. He closed his eyes, and he quickly fell asleep, feeling safe, for the first time a while, amongst his friends.

He woke when Lestrade moved. He allowed Lestrade to move him gently to a position where he wouldn't tip over, deciding he was still too tired to wake up.

"Oh, look at him." Mrs. Hudson said. Sherlock could feel eyes upon him, and still he didn't move, trying to go back to sleep. "He hasn't slept in ages. It's nice to see him at peace, even if it doesn't last too long."

"I know. I can't believe all that's happened." Lestrade answered. Sherlock heard him sit down, and he assumed he sat in Sherlock's seat. "John- well, you know." Mrs. Hudson sniffed. "And Sherlock appears out of nowhere, saying he was never dead... He said his brother told him the news, and he came right back here..."

"These poor boys." Mrs. Hudson sobbed. Sherlock felt his heart sink at the sound.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock said, opening his eyes. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade jumped.

"Sherlock-" Mrs. Hudson held her hand over her heart. "You gave me a heart-attack... What do you mean 'sorry'?"

"I apologize for-"

Lestrade cut him off. "There's no need to apologize, Sherlock." He shook his head when Sherlock began to protest. "None of this was your fault what-so-ever."

"John killed himself because I..." Sherlock fell silent, the cold finality of saying it casting a shadow over his heart.

Lestrade saw the pain pass over the detectives face. "You did it to save us. Don't down-trod that, Sherlock." Sherlock didn't look at him. "You couldn't have known that John would... Would kill himself. None of us could have known." He felt the tears coming to his eyes, but he tried to hold them back. "Sherlock, look at me." Sherlock looked, the tears spilling down his cheeks. "It was not your fault." Lestrade lifted himself out of the chair and bent down next to Sherlock. "It wasn't your fault." He embraced Sherlock. Sherlock wrapped his arms around Lestrade and buried his head into his chest, succumbing to his tears.

He sat quietly in the car, staring down at his hands. He wore a dark suit, and a black shirt. He had attempted to make his hair look nice, but he knew that it hadn't worked. Mycroft sat next to him wearing his finest suit, sitting straight, looking prim and proper.

The funeral preparations had fallen upon Sherlock's shoulders because none of John's family stood up to take responsibility. Sherlock thought he had it bad, what with the Queen for a brother; but he knew that Mycroft cared for him, and would certainly take the time to arrange Sherlock's funeral.

Sherlock wasn't even sure if John's family was coming. He had informed them of the date, but they had sounded completely uninterested. It sickened him to his very core. If anyone deserved a loving family, it was John.

The car stopped. Mycroft turned to Sherlock. He didn't say anything, but Sherlock nodded and they stepped out of the car.

It was raining. Typical.

Mycroft took put his umbrella and opened it, offering to Sherlock. Sherlock shook his head. They made their way across the graveyard, the mud hindering them slightly, but they made it to the small crowd that had gathered there. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Stamford, and a couple of men John knew back from his days in Afghanistan stood by the newly dug hole. Sherlock noticed that John's brother was the only family that showed up, making his blood boil.

Mycroft had said that it could have been a rather large military funeral if he wanted, but Sherlock knew John would have wanted a small service with only his close friends present.

He didn't look at the gravestone. He couldn't see his name written there. Not yet. He simply couldn't. Mycroft had arranged that too; Sherlock had agreed upon it, having looked at it before his companions name was carved upon it.

He took a deep breath.

Mycroft was leading him towards the man who would be doing the service and Sherlock soon found himself shaking hands with him. He had severely decided against a priest. It would have been an absolutely ridiculous notion, for John was not a religious man.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes."

"Thank you for doing this, Leslie." Sherlock managed to say, his voice sounding scratchy from lack of use. Leslie had also preformed the service for Sherlock's father.

Leslie placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Why did people think this was comforting? "Don't worry about it. Are we ready to begin?"

It didn't take long. Mycroft stood on one of his sides and Mrs. Hudson stood on his other. Lestrade was on the other side of the grave. Halfway through he felt his tears falling down his cheeks, and he felt Mrs. Hudson's grip on his arm tighten, her own body shuttering from her sobs. He glanced up at Lestrade and saw his head in his hand, his shoulders shaking. When the coffin was in the ground, Leslie invited Sherlock to begin the burial by throwing dirt upon the coffin. He obliged. Dirt gripped tight in his hand, he hesitated, staring down at his friend.

"Thank you, John." Was all he whispered, his words carrying through the silent cemetery. He threw the dirt into the hole and onto the wooden surface of the coffin. He returned to Mrs. Hudson, who patted his shoulder.

The crowd slowly began to disburse, the soldiers deciding to head to a pub to drink in the memory of a fallen comrade, John's brother simply disappearing, and Stamford stayed for a moment to stare silently at the grave then follow the soldiers to the pub. Only Sherlock, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade remained.

Mrs. Hudson still clung to Sherlock's arm. It was beginning to become uncomfortable for him, but he could bring himself to push her away. He needed her arm to be there. He needed an anchor to tether him to the earth. He feared he might just float away.

'John Hamish Watson, a good man and a loyal friend'

The Queen had decided upon the inscription. He didn't think it did John justice what-so-ever, but what words could possibly encompass all that John was? He supposed it would have to do. Fresh roses surrounded the tombstone. Very cliché, but he distinctly remembered John expressing exactly how much he liked roses.

"I must be off, Sherlock." Mycroft shook off his umbrella, the rain having stopped a little while before. "I trust you to make sure he gets home." He said to Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. He tipped his hat and was gone.

"Are you ready to go, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock slipped out of Mrs. Hudson's arm. "I'll meet you at the car. I- I need a moment."

He was alone with John.

He sighed, looking up at the sky that was clearing. "I'm sorry, John." He stopped, a lump in his throat. "I'm so sorry, John." Tears threatened to spill again but he held himself steady. "I wish to God I could have told you-" He ran a hand through his dark hair, trying to calm himself without much avail. "Look at me, John." He laughed. "Only you could do this to me. Make me feel. Make me a better person. I comforted someone today. Imagine that; Sherlock Holmes comforting somebody. I'm sure Mrs. Hudson appreciated it." He stopped again, his hands shaking. He breathed. "This is... I suppose this is goodbye, John." The words hit him like a slap to the face, but he ploughed on. "I was such a broken person and you helped me. You helped me so much." He reached out and touched the cold stone. "Goodbye, John. I'll be see you soon enough."


End file.
